gigi's lair

The past two weeks had turned into one long, caffeine-stained fever dream of essay deadlines, seminar critiques, and a lot of academic tunnel vision that made the rest of the world a forgotten background hum.

You'd picked up your car six days after the whole alternator-belt debacle—Logan’s buddy had been true to his word, fixing it cheaply and without any unnecessary theatrics—and after that, life had simply swallowed you whole.

Between drafting a twenty-page analysis on the semiotics of longing in nineteenth-century novels and trying not to drown in peer review sessions, texting had become a casualty.

You were, and always had been, a terrible texter: sporadic replies hours (or days) later, half-formed thoughts sent at 2 a.m., emojis standing in for actual sentences.

Still, Logan had kept the thread alive with surprising consistency, casual check-ins about whether your car was behaving itself, a random meme about terrible drivers that made you snort-laugh in the library, and the occasional gentle reminder that you still owed him coffee.

You'd smiled at each one, replied when you could with something breezy and distracted, but in your head, it was friendly noise.

Logan was a nice guy, being nice.

He most likely had a schedule packed with hockey practices, workouts, and whatever else golden-boy athletes filled their days with; surely he wasn’t actually waiting on some linguistics nerd to make good on a polite offer.

You were little old you, perpetually ink-stained fingers and a brain too busy chasing etymological rabbit holes to entertain the idea that he might be genuinely interested in grabbing that coffee.

It was all civilized goodwill.

The universe had tossed a kind stranger into your path and then let the current carry you along separate streams.

That particular Wednesday afternoon found you tucked into a corner booth in the student cafeteria, sunlight slanting through the tall windows and catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Your friends were all off in their respective academic orbits, different classes, different deadlines, which led you to claim the space for yourself with a tray of lukewarm fries, a questionable smoothie, and your latest literary escape propped open against a napkin dispenser.

The book was a worn copy of The Enchanted April, its pages soft as whispered secrets, and you'd fallen headfirst into the Italian countryside prose, letting the words wrap around you. Your linguistics notes sat neglected beside it, while you absentmindedly dipped another fry into ketchup and lost yourself in the rhythm of the sentences.

Yet even as the story pulled you toward sun-drenched terraces, your mind kept slipping, drifting back to Logan in these interstitial moments that felt traitorous to the academic rigor you usually prized. It wasn't that you were pining...but you liked him.

You set the book down for a moment, fingers tracing the embossed title, and took a slow sip of the smoothie, the artificial berry notes clashing with the salt of the fries.

A sudden tap on the table right beside your elbow jolted you so violently that you nearly launched your smoothie across the booth.

Your knee slammed into the underside of the table with a painful thunk, and the book tumbled shut as you whipped your head up, chest executing that familiar pirouette of pure startlement.

“Jesus Christ—?!”

Your hand was flying to your chest as John Logan stood outside your booth with his hands raised in that same placating gesture from the day you met, loose brown curls shadowing those warm eyes that crinkled at the corners.

He looked unfairly good for a random Wednesday, a simple white tee with a striped flannel, athletic shorts showing off the legs that clearly spent serious time on the ice, and that easy, disarming grin.

“Sorry,” he said, voice smooth like good coffee. “You were really in there, huh?”

That voice should come with a warning label.

“You have got to stop sneaking up on me.” You managed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear and hoping you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. You gestured vaguely at the empty seat across from you, trying to play it cool. “Uh. Sit?"

Logan slid into the seat across from you without a second thought, as if you'd done this a hundred times before. He set down his own tray—protein-heavy, predictably—and leaned forward on his forearms, those corded muscles you definitely had not been thinking about for two weeks flexing casually, his broad shoulders making the space feel cozier

“You looked like you were a thousand miles away." He nodded towards The Enchanted April with a chuckle that made something unfurl in your chest.

Your cheeks warmed at the casual observation. He’d noticed the title.

“The south of Italy, actually. Four women reinventing their lives under wisteria and lemon trees.” You have now fully closed the book, marking your place with a stray receipt. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have practice or weight training or some athletic ritual that involves sweating?”

He shrugged, popping a fry from your tray without asking, bold, but somehow charming in its familiarity.

“Raiding my fries." You tsked as you swatted at his hand, " Most people at least ask.”

“Practice got moved. Figured I’d refuel before my next class. And I saw you sitting here looking all mysterious and bookish, so…”

Another easy grin.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” You grinned back, a little helplessly.

You caught up in long, meandering paragraphs: you rambling about your essay-induced madness, him sharing a funny story about one of his teammates, Tucker, accidentally locking himself out of the hockey house in nothing but a towel.

"How’s the car treating you? No more dramatic roadside betrayals?”

“She’s been suspiciously well-behaved since the fix,” you replied, dipping another fry.

“Glad to hear it. I told him to take it easy on the parts. Didn’t want you cursing my name if it died again.”

“I could never curse your name. My eternal gratitude is yours.”

Logan’s grin turned a shade more playful, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Eternal gratitude, huh? I’m gonna hold you to that. Might cash it in sooner than later… preferably over that coffee you still owe me.”

Oh. That was flirty.

You blinked, genuinely surprised.

In all your distracted replies over the past two weeks, you'd assumed those mentions were polite filler, the kind of thing people say and then forget. That a guy like him, with his chaotic schedule and campus-wide reputation, would remember, let alone gently follow up on a throwaway offer to a flustered girl whose car died dramatically on his street.

“You were serious about that?” You asked, tilting your head with a small, self-deprecating smile.

He shook his head, leaning back but keeping his full attention on you.

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean. I’ve been looking forward to it. So what do you say? Coffee this weekend? I promise not to scare you when I show up."

The butterflies blooming in your stomach felt dangerously whimsical, like the first tentative pages of a story you hadn’t known you wanted to read.

“Alright,” you agreed easily, smiling despite the flutter in your ribs. “Real coffee, not this cafeteria sludge. My treat, as promised. Maybe this weekend, if you’re not out saving more stranded damsels?”

He stole another fry, seriously, the audacity, and leaned in, elbows on the table. “I’ve got a warm-up home game Saturday afternoon. You could come watch, and afterward we'll grab that coffee. The arena’s got a decent stand by the main concourse."

A game, an actual hockey game? With crowds and sticks and ice?

“I’ve never been to a hockey game before.”

Logan froze mid-chew, brown eyes widening in genuine shock, gawking at you like you’d confessed to never having seen the sun. He let out a dramatic scoff, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded.

“Never been to a game?” he repeated, voice laced with exaggerated horror. “You’re killin' me here."

"I'm sorry?"

He shook his head.

“You’re coming. I’ll get you a good seat, and after we win, which we will, you can buy me that coffee."

The butterflies in your stomach did another full spin, equal parts nerves and delight. The idea of sitting in a crowded arena, watching him glide across the ice like the golden-boy athlete he was…

“C’mon. It’ll be fun. Say yes?”

You met his gaze across the sticky cafeteria table, the afternoon sunlight catching in his curls.

“Yeah,” You nodded, the word coming out softer than you meant. “Yes. I’ll come to the game.”

Logan’s whole face lit up, and damn if it didn’t make you want to touch his hair.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, the praise casual but laced with something that made your pulse trip.

You took a slow sip, the artificial berry sweetness doing little to ground the whirlwind in your head. Two simple syllables, yet they landed with the weight of an epithet, warm and proprietary, curling around your thoughts like marginalia in an old manuscript.

As you lowered the cup, your gaze drifted beyond the safe confines of your booth for the first time since he’d sat down. That was when you noticed it.

A group of girls at a nearby table, freshmen, kept stealing glances in Logan’s direction. One of them was openly staring, her chin propped on her hand while her friends whispered behind strategic palms. Another pair of tables over had gone conspicuously quiet, their conversation tapering off into what you could only diagnose as fawning.

Even a few guys nearby offered respectful nods, the kind athletes gave one another in recognition of shared territory.

Of course they were ooking, you thought, a etymological note surfacing unbidden. Logan. From the Gaelic lagan, little hollow, yet there was nothing diminutive about the way he filled space.

“You okay?” His voice pulled you back with concern. “Italy still calling your name?”

“You tend to rewrite the social text wherever you sit, don’t you?” You blurted it out without thinking.

He raised an eyebrow. “That a fancy way of saying people are staring?”

A wry smile touched your lips. "It’s quite the phenomenon.”

Logan laughed, the sound rumbling through you.

“They’re probably wondering why I’m lucky enough to be sitting across from the prettiest girl in the cafeteria.”

He was so direct and unapologetic. You rolled your eyes to cover the gidiness growing on your features. The flirtation was unmistakable now, and you, perpetual overthinker, found yourself wanting more of it.

“Flattery won’t get you out of buying your own coffee if you lose on Saturday.”

“We’re not losing,” he said with absolute conviction, “And even if we did, I’d still want to grab coffee with you after."

You found yourself leaning in, the sticky table between you feeling less like a barrier. It was refreshing, this straightforwardness of his, no games or layered meanings to unpack like you did with every guy you tried to date lately.

"What if I bring bad luck or something?"

Logan’s eyes sparkled as he leaned in a bit more, voice dropping into that warm register that made the noisy cafeteria feel surprisingly intimate.

"Nah, you’re gonna be my good luck charm. Can’t let a little ice and bad luck get in the way of collecting on eternal gratitude, right?” He stood to leave for his next class, brushing your shoulder with a gentle hand, not giving you time to recover or say goodbye. “I'll text you the ticket info.”

You watched him walk away.

The eyes followed him, of course. But he glanced back at you once, that disarming smile flashing like sunlight off ice, and suddenly the only gaze that mattered was the one that had chosen to linger on yours.

God damn it, he was good.

Later that evening, you found yourself sprawled across the threadbare couch in your shared apartment, legs draped over the armrest while the faint scent of microwave popcorn lingered in the air. Your two closest friends, Mia and Sophie, had descended upon the living room armed with mugs of herbal tea and an insatiable appetite for gossip.

Your mind was elsewhere, running back to warm chcolate brown eyes and the effortless cadence of Logan’s laughter, replaying the cafeteria conversation on a loop that refused to fade.

“Soooo,” Mia began, tucking a strand of her vibrant curly purple hair behind her ear as she fixed you with a shrewd, expectant stare, “You’ve been suspiciously quiet. Spill. What’s got that dreamy little smile playing on your lips every time we look away?”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of your mug as a rush of effervescent excitement bloomed in your whole body.

Logan wanted you at his game.

“Nothing monumental,” you said lightly, though the words felt gilded with understatement. “I made plans for Saturday night.”

Sophie nearly choked on her tea, setting the mug down with a decisive clink as her eyes widened in delight.

“Plans? As in, actual social plans that don’t involve burying yourself in etymological dictionaries until dawn? Oh my god, you have a date!”

“Uh, I do not,” you protested, sitting up straighter and waving a hand dismissively, though your voice wavered with poorly concealed mirth. “It’s not a date. It’s… coffee. After a thing.”

Mia leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her grin sharpening like a well-honed rhetorical device. “A thing? Come on, details. Who is this mysterious ‘thing’ with? Is he cute? Please tell me he’s not another brooding poetry major.”

You laughed, the sound airy and unrestrained, even as your thoughts spiraled into a cascade of fervent appreciation. Logan was so disarmingly sweet, wasn’t he?

“It’s really not a date,” you insisted again, though your smile kept betraying you, curving wider with every syllable. “He invited me to his hockey game on Saturday. Said the coffee stand there isn’t terrible, and we could grab some afterward. That’s all.”

Sophie’s jaw dropped in exaggerated shock, while Mia let out a gleeful squeal that echoed off the apartment walls.

“A hockey game? Who even are you right now?"

You buried your face in a throw pillow for a moment, muffling your own laughter before peeking out, cheeks aflame.

“Fine,” you relented, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as you hugged the pillow closer. “It’s John Logan.”

The room went pin-drop silent for a beat before exploding.

Mia’s eyes bulged. “What the fuck—John Logan? As in, the John Logan? Campus heartthrob with the curls and the ridiculous arms?”

Sophie clutched her chest dramatically, “Oh my god. You’re joking. How? When?"

You sat up on the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest as their expectant stares burned into you.

“Okay, fine,” you conceded, a reluctant pout tugging at your lips as you recounted the tale. “It happened two weeks ago. My stupid car broke down—alternator belt, apparently—right in the middle of his street. Logan just… showed up. He was super nice about it. Helped me call for a free tow, let me wait inside his place while his buddy sorted everything out. Even drove me back to campus afterward."

Mia’s eyebrows shot upward, her expression a perfect tableau of dawning realization. “Wait. He let you stay over? In his house? While your car was being fixed?”

“Not like stay over stay over,” you clarified quickly, though your while body buzzed at the implication. “It was ten minutes in the kitchen. It was all very chivalrous and practical. No big deal.”

Sophie leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with glee. “And then?”

“We've been texting a little, or he has, you know I suck at it,” you continued, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater as another wave of inner euphoria crested. “He’s kept in touch since then. I’ve been terrible at replying because of deadlines.” You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance even as your voice laced with undeniable fondness. “He’s just being nice, you guys. I think we’re friends! That’s all. He probably does this kind of thing for everyone.”

“Girl,” Mia groaned, throwing a pillow at you with affectionate exasperation, “He wants you bad. Are you stupid? No straight guy lets a random cute girl hang out in his house, drives her around, and then keeps texting for two weeks just to be ‘nice.’ That’s boyfriend behavior!”

You scoffed, "That's not true."

Sophie nodded vigorously, her eyes sparkling with mischievous insight.

“Yes, it is. He invited you to his game, for crying out loud. Hockey players don’t hand out tickets to their games and promise post-game coffee to ‘friends.’ Especially not when they look like him. He’s been courting you in the most low-key way possible, and you’re over here saying he wants to be friends."

Could he really? John Logan, wanting you? You had developed somewhat of a crush, yes; that much was evident in the way your thoughts kept circling back to his voice, the easy generosity of his gestures, the way he had transformed a moment of roadside vulnerability into something tender.

Yet it wasn’t an all-consuming fixation that would break your heart if it remained unreciprocated. No, this was measured.

You would happily linger in the realm of friendship, exploring the contours of his personality through late-night texts, shared fries, and post-game coffee. Learning the rhythms of his world, the camaraderie of teammates, the discipline beneath the golden-boy exterior, that would be reward enough.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled into your palms, peeking through your fingers, "You think so? He just comes off as a really easy-going guy."

Sophie reached over and squeezed your arm, her smile warm and encouraging.

“He wants you there because he wants you. Full stop. Stop overthinking and enjoy the fact that a hot, nice guy is clearly pursuing you.”

if he did want more… if those flirtatious undertones and lingering glances signified genuine interest rather than habitual banter…

You weren’t saying no to the possibility of his hand brushing yours with intent, or conversations that went well beyond polite pleasantries into something deeper.

“I don’t know if it’s quite like that,” You admitted your doubts, “But… he has been surprisingly consistent. He remembered the coffee, he seemed really happy when I agreed to come to the game. It’s… nice. More than nice, really.”

Mia sighed dreamily.

"That’s ‘guy who is invested and hoping you notice.”

You nodded absently, letting their words wash over you. He could simply be the rare dude who extends kindness without second intentions.

“Either way, I’m looking forward to Saturday. It’ll be good to get out of my head for once and watch something different."

Sophie beamed, already pulling out her phone.

“We’re helping you pick an outfit. Something cute but not trying-too-hard, he’s going to forget there’s even a game happening.”

She had already opened three different shopping tabs by the time you managed to pry the phone from her hands.

“No,” you said immediately.

“Yes,” Mia countered.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You two are impossible.”

By the time they finally retreated to their rooms, the apartment had fallen quiet. You carried your empty mug into the kitchen and rinsed it out before wandering back toward your bedroom.

Your phone buzzed, you picked it up right away.

John Logan: Got your ticket.

A second message appeared.

John Logan: Thought I'd warn you now. We tend to be loud when we score.

You: Bold assumption.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

John Logan: See? This is why I like you. No faith in me whatsoever.

You: I'm trying to keep your ego manageable.

John Logan: Too late. Been told I'm a superstar.

You: By your friends?

John Logan: Mostly by them, yes.

A photo appeared moments later, it was a screenshot of the digital ticket. Section 108, right behind the team's bench.

Your eyes widened.

You: These seem like really good seats.

John Logan: They are.

You: Should I be worried?

John Logan: Only if you're planning on cheering for the other team.

You: I don't even know who the other team is.

John Logan: Perfect. You're already our ideal fan.

He had such a way of making conversation feel easy. Before you could overthink your response, another message appeared.

John Logan: Seriously, though. Glad you're coming.

You beamed down at the message for longer than was probably necessary.

You: Me too.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared and returned within a minute.

John Logan: Good. See you Saturday, good luck charm.

You bit your lip, containing the sudden urge to kick your feet up. The silly nickname shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.

Yet, staring at those three words, you found yourself giggling in the dark like an idiot, crawling beneath your blankets with your phone resting against your chest.

This was nice.

Across campus, several miles away, Logan lay stretched across his bed staring at the same conversation. The bedroom door swung open without anyone bothering to knock, which wasn't unsual.

Garrett wandered in carrying a protein shake. "You look stupid."

Logan didn't bother glancing up, raising an uninterested thumbs up instead.

"Thanks."

Garrett eyed him suspiciously. "Who are you texting?"

"No one."

"Bullshit."

Logan sighed, finally locking his phone and tossing it onto the mattress, to which his best friend's eyes narrowed immediately, then widened.

"Holy shit."

"What?"

"It's the English girl."

Logan groaned, already regretting confiding in his best friend about you. "Can you not call her that?"

"It's absolutely the English girl." Garrett pointed dramatically. "You like her."

Logan shrugged, avoiding the accusations. "I like lots of people."

"Nope."

"Yep."

"Nope."

Garrett dropped into the desk chair and folded his arms.

"You've got the look."

Logan snorted, resting a hand behind his head. "The look?"

"The one where you're trying not to smile at your phone."

Logan threw a pillow at him.

Garrett caught it effortlessly. "Dude."

"What?"

"You got her coming Saturday, don't you?"

A reluctant smile appeared.

"There it is."

"Shut the fuck up."

"You're cooked."

For once in his university life, when he thought about Saturday, John Logan didn't think about the game.

Not first, anyway. He thought about a girl who had crashed into his life with a broken-down car and had easily gotten into his head, taking hold of every one of his thoughts lately.

A girl who still didn't seem to realize how much he wanted to see her.

You woke in the narrow confines of your off-campus apartment, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains you had chosen for your ethereal quality, casting the room in a forgiving glow. It made even the cluttered stacks of dog-eared novels and half-finished linguistics notes feel like the opening chapter of some delightful, meandering adventure.

Humming a barely remembered tune, you padded across the creaky floorboards in oversized socks, brewing a cup of early grey while mentally rehearsing your seminar presentation on the fluidity of emotional lexicons in modern prose. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earned an approving wink.

Not bad.

You gathered your scattered belongings, laptop brimming with annotations, textbooks, and stepped out into the crisp air.

The drive started splendidly, windows cracked to let in the breeze that carried hints of blooming lilacs and distant lawnmowers. The old sedan had its quirks, unreliable but endearing. It had faithfully ferried you through countless late-night library runs and spontaneous road trips-

Today, though, as you turned onto the quieter residential street shortcutting toward Briar University, the engine began to falter. A sputter here, a hesitant cough there.

You coaxed it gently at first, patting the dashboard like a finicky old friend.

“Come now. Don’t do this to me."

But fate, ever the mischievous author, had other plans.

The car gave one final, theatrical shudder and fell silent altogether, coasting to a stop along the curb of a tree-lined street dotted with handsome houses. You simply sat there, blinking at the dashboard as if it might apologize and restart on its own.

No. No, no, no. You had a presentation. You could not afford to be the girl whose car died dramatically on the side of the road.

A disbelief bubble of laughter escaped your lips first before the frustration took its place. You turned the key again and again, the clicks mocking you with their empty rhythm.

“You gotta be kidding me,” You groaned, leaning back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh that bordered on theatrical.

Your phone battery hovered at a precarious twenty percent, and the campus still beckoned from beyond the next hill, you allowed yourself a few minutes to simply feel it—the absurdity of the situation.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from that overwhelming rush of “why me, right now?” blended with a strange amusement at your own misfortune. You rested your forehead against the steering wheel.

The street around your felt curiously serene, those large houses suggesting a lively collegiate ecosystem you rarely brushed agains.

You could handle this. Call for assistance, transform the delay into an opportunity for people-watching or jotting down observations.

Before you could reach for your phone to summon roadside assistance—battery be damned—a knock sounded against the driver’s side window.

It made you jump so hard your knee slammed into the steering column.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words flew out of your mouth as you whipped your head around, eyes wide, one hand pressed to your chest as if that would calm the adrenaline surge. “What the actual fuck—”

Your heart was executing a fluttering pirouette as you swiped at your cheeks and smoothed the stray tendrils of hair framing your face.

Through the glass, a tall figure loomed, broad-shouldered and casually commanding, with a backward baseball cap taming dark, slightly tousled hair. Striking doe brown eyes met yours directly, carrying a blend of concern and easy amusement.

He wore a faded hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from what you could only assume were hockey drills.

John Logan of all people.

He looked a little startled by your reaction but raised his hands slightly, trying not to spook you further. Even in your rattled state you registered that he was stupidly attractive up close.

Oh my god, he saw the forehead-on-wheel moment.

You cracked the window an inch, catching your breath.

“Sorry—shit, you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t hear you coming at all.”

He blinked at you, those striking eyes narrowing in concern and what looked like amusement.

You’d seen him around campus before, usually surrounded by the rest of the hockey crowd, but never this near.

Never while you were mid-meltdown with tear tracks probably still visible on your cheeks.

“No worries. Didn’t mean to give you a cardiac event."

You let out a watery giggle, trying to slow your racing pulse.

“That’s… an apt nomenclature for it.” You immediately winced, heat rushing to your face. “I mean—yeah. It just died. Stopped working. Sorry."

Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head.

“Nomenclature? Damn. You okay if I take a look, or do you want me to call it something fancier first?”

"...Take a look?"

Logan's grin twitched. "Yeah."

"At the car?"

"That's generally what breaks down."

"Right, but..." You frowned. "Why?"

For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.

"Because it stopped running?"

"No, I understand the sequence of events. Car dies. Tragic. Very moving." You pointed at him. "I'm asking why you are volunteering."

His eyebrows climbed. "Why?"

"You're a hockey player."

"Okay?"

"That's all I've got."

"That's all you've got?"

"And you're in some of my general education classes." You shrugged helplessly. "But none of that screams automotive expertise."

Logan stared at you for a second before shaking his head. “That’s not usually a disqualification for basic car knowledge. Pop the hood."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me."

"People who say 'trust me' are statistically responsible for a significant percentage of bad decisions."

He leaned one forearm on the roof of your car, ducking to meet your eyes better through the cracked window. "Pop. The hood."

You hesitated. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Yes."

"Actually?"

"Yes."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Or in the way every guy who has watched three YouTube videos suddenly thinks he can rebuild an engine?"

Logan laughed outright.

"I know what I'm doing. I’ve been fixing cars since I could walk."

You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched his face.

“If you break it more, I’m going to cry in front of you, and that would be the ultimate humiliation.”

His expression softened, the cocky smirk becoming gentler.

“I won’t break it. Are you gonna keep interrogating me while your car stays dead?”

You let out a defeated huff, reaching down to pull the hood release.

“Sorry. Yes, please. That would be incredibly helpful."

Logan gave you a quick, reassuring nod.

“No problem. Sit tight.”

He moved to the front of the car as you watched through the windshield. He lifted the hood and propped it open as the morning light poured over him—faded hoodie stretched across a strong back, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms dusted with faint scars and engine grease already smudging his skin.

The backward cap shadowed his eyes, but the sharp line of his jaw and the focused set of his mouth were impossible to ignore.

Oh. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth blooming in your body.

That was… that was a fine man.

You hadn't voluntarily noticed a man in months—possibly years—and yet here you were, cataloging the exact width of his shoulders as if you were annotating a particularly attractive stanza.

Logan leaned over the hood, one hand braced on the frame as he studied the engine bay. His brow furrowed in concentration, a small frown of thought crossed his face as he reached in and touched something, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity.

He looked completely in his element

You pressed your cool fingers to your flushed cheeks, trying to will the warmth away. Thank God he was completely focused on the engine and not looking at you right now. If those doe-brown eyes turned your way while you were blushing, you’d probably dissolve into the driver’s seat.

You would not get flushed over random hockey players who looked like they could carry both the heroine and the entire third-act climax without breaking a sweat.

You moved in your seat, pretending to check your phone even though the battery warning was glaring at you. Anything to keep from openly ogling the hockey player currently saving your morning.

After a minute, Logan straightened, still leaning over the engine.

“Looks like your alternator belt is shot,” he called out, voice muffled by the hood. “It’s pretty frayed. That’s why she died on you.”

You leaned toward the open window, trying to sound normal. “Alternator belt, right."

He let out a low chuckle and wiped his hands on his hoodie, finally glancing over the hood at you. Your eyes met for a brief second, and your stomach performed an unflattering somersault worthy of a Brontë heroine.

Abort. Abort. Maintain dignity.

“Want me to call a buddy?” he offered, “He’s got a shop nearby. Could tow it and fix it cheaply. Save you the drama.”

You stared at him, equal parts grateful and mortified.

“You really don’t have to do all that,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a futile attempt at composure. “You’ve already done more than enough."

Logan’s grin returned, crooked and far too charming.

“I don’t mind." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “He owes me a favor anyway. I’ll have him swing by with the tow truck. Shouldn’t take long.”

You hesitated, pride and practicality wrestling in your chest. The seminar clock was ticking louder by the second.

"I’m not trying to be a charity case for the Briar hockey team.”

Logan glanced up from his phone, one eyebrow arched. “Did I say anything about charity?”

“No, but… you have that helpful-athlete vibe. It’s suspicious.”

“Suspicious,” he repeated, entertained. He leaned against the side of your car, arms crossed over his broad chest, the faded hoodie pulling tight across his shoulders. “You always this cynical?"

You looked away, pretending to check the time on your dying phone.

“I— linguistics major. We’re trained to question everything. Especially smooth-talking men with tool knowledge.”

Logan’s smile widened dangerously. “Smooth-talking. I’ll take it.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands for a second. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”

“It’s cute.”

Before you could spiral about his casual comment, he pushed off the car. “You got somewhere to be, right?”

“Seminar. I’m presenting.” You winced.

“Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head toward the row of pretty houses across the street. “My place is right there. The third one with the shitty basketball hoop out front. You can wait inside, charge your phone, and grab some coffee. No pressure.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged, almost boyish despite the six-foot-something of pure athletic competence. “Or you can sit here and stress. Your call.”

The logical part of your brain screamed stranger danger. The rest of you—the part currently cataloguing the way his forearms flexed when he crossed them again—voted yes immediately.

You hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.

“I appreciate the offer, but… I don’t know. I can wait out here. I don’t want to impose.”

Logan kept his respectful distance.

“I get it. Random guy invites you into his house after your car dies? Sounds like the opening to every cautionary tale your mom ever told you.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and some of the tension in your shoulders eased.

He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way that somehow made him even more disarming.

“But here’s the truth: it’s just me and three other idiots right now. One’s in class, the others are probably still passed out. The door stays unlocked the whole time. You can leave whenever you want.”

He shrugged, that half-smile softening into something sheepish. You searched his face. There was no pushiness or over-the-top flirting. He seemed like a genuinely decent guy.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay. Yeah. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”

Logan’s smile brightened, but he didn’t make a big deal out of your acceptance, simply nodding toward the third house across the street.

“Cool. C’mon.”

That was your cue. You finally pushed open the car door and stepped out into the crisp morning air, slinging your bag and laptop over your shoulder. Logan waited patiently on the sidewalk, hands back in his hoodie pockets.

He kept pace beside you as you crossed the tree-lined street, maintaining a polite distance—close enough to talk comfortably, but never crowding. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, catching on his backward cap. You tried (and mostly failed) not to notice how good he looked doing absolutely nothing.

As you reached the steps of the third house, he unlocked the door and held it open for you with an easy gesture.

“After you. Fair warning, it’s a hockey house."

The place was surprisingly livable, with a worn couch, a decent kitchen, and a living room that smelled like fresh coffee and laundry.

Nothing smelled bad or screamed “frat hell.” It felt… normal.

Logan moved into the kitchen, “Phone charger’s right there on the counter if you need it. Help yourself. Coffee’s still hot, I made it before my run.”

He poured you a mug without asking twice and slid it across the island, black and simple. Then he stepped back, giving you plenty of space as he leaned against the opposite counter.

You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, feeling the last of your nerves settle. You took a sip of coffe purely to avoid looking at him.

Unfortunately, that only gave you more time to be aware of him. The problem wasn't that Logan was attractive, plenty of people were attractive.

The problem was that he was sitting three feet away from you, looking unfairly good while doing absolutely nothing.

"So."

You were busy trying not to stare at his forearms, a losing battle, if you were being honest. Your gaze darted away the second you realized where it had landed.

You looked up cautiously.

"So," you echoed.

A corner of his mouth twitched. "You know who I am."

You nearly choked on your coffee. "What?"

"You knew I played hockey before I said anything."

"Oh."

"That means you know my name."

"Yes."

The realization hit him at the exact same time it hit you. You knew his name, that he played hockey, that he lived in this house. You knew his teammates' names and that he'd scored twice in the championship game last year because half the campus wouldn't shut up about it.

Meanwhile—

You had never actually introduced yourself.

"But I don't know yours."

A horrified sound escaped your throat, causing Logan to bark out a laugh. "Holy shit."

You groaned. "Oh no."

"There it is," he said.

"There what is?"

"The look."

"What look?"

"The one where you realize something embarrassing."

You covered your face, pointing at him from behind your hands.

"You also never introduced yourself!"

His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think I had to."

You could tell by his face that it hadn't occurred to him that an introduction was necessary because you'd already known exactly who he was.

Which should have been annoying.

You snorted, "That's a crazy thing to say."

Normally, it would've driven you insane.

Male athletes had a very specific brand of confidence that usually made your eyes twitch. Half of them on campus walked around like they were personally responsible for the invention of oxygen. Every conversation somehow circled back to their stats, their workouts, their game schedule, their importance to society.

You typically found it exhausting and pretentious. Yet somehow—

"It is?"

When Logan said it, it didn't sound like ego. It sounded like confidence.

Your brain should have filed him neatly into the same category as every other cocky athlete you'd met. Instead, your brain had apparently decided: this one's hot.

To save yourself, you gave him your name.

"That's a pretty name."

The compliment was such a ridiculously low bar that you hated yourself a little for getting flustered for the millionth time. Then again, the bar for men was historically buried somewhere beneath the Earth's crust.

You murmured a thank you into your coffee mug before your dignity could stage a protest.

Logan's grin widened. "You're a linguistics major, right?"

You blinked. "How do you know that?"

"You said it."

"Oh, right."

His smile somehow got bigger. "Oh?"

"I say a lot of things."

"I noticed."

Wonderful, you were being perceived. You hated being perceived, especially by attractive men who seemed to find your awkwardness entertaining instead of alarming.

Logan took another sip of coffee, still watching you over the rim of the mug. "Emotional lexicons."

"What?"

"That's what you were talking about when I walked up."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You heard me talking to myself."

A laugh escaped him and it sounded so nice it made it impossible not to smile back.

"You were sitting alone in a dead car arguing with your steering wheel."

You groaned so hard your soul nearly left your body. "Please stop."

"Wait," he said suddenly. His eyebrows pulled together. "What is your presentation about?"

You lowered your hands. "Linguistics."

"That's not an answer."

"It is technically an answer."

"No."

You laughed. "No?"

"No."

He pointed at you. "What specifically?"

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop smiling.

"The fluidity of emotional language in modern literature."

"Okay, say that again but like you're explaining it to a normal person."

"Wow. That was rude."

"It was honest." He looked genuinely curious.

You'd spent years explaining your major to people whose eyes glazed over halfway through the first sentence. Usually the conversation went:

What's your major?

Linguistics.

Oh cool. How many languages do you speak?

And then you had to spend ten minutes explaining that linguistics wasn't actually the study of learning languages.

You shifted on your stool. "It's basically about how people use language to communicate emotions."

His expression sharpened. "Like psychology?"

"Adjacent."

"English?"

"Adjacent."

"Made-up word science?"

"That one hurt."

His grin appeared immediately. "So basically yes."

You shook your head.

"I study how people choose words. Why certain phrases become popular. Why language changes. Why different people communicate emotions differently."

Logan nodded slowly. "Huh. That's actually kinda cool."

The sincerity caught you off guard. Everything about this man kept catching you off guard because you expected hockey-player responses, the typical disinterest.

Logan rested his forearms on the kitchen island. "So what do you wanna do with that?"

You srunched your nose in reply.

"What?" His forehead creased.

Somehow, you'd gone from talking about your dead car to discussing your future plans with a man you'd known for less than an hour, which felt oddly intimate.

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your mug with a fingertip as if the ceramic held the answers to your entire post-grad existential spiral.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” you admitted, the words tasting surprisingly honest on your tongue. “Part of me wants to chase a PhD—dissect semantic shifts in emotional discourse across cultures, maybe publish something. The other part wants to teach, or write, or… I don’t know, help people find better ways to say the things they feel.”

Logan listened without that glazed, polite detachment you’d come to expect from most guys. His doe-brown eyes stayed on you, turning your words over in his mind instead of waiting for his turn to speak.

“That sounds important,” he said after a beat. “People suck at saying what they mean. Especially the important shit.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m better at hitting a puck than hitting the right words most days.”

You smiled into your coffee, warmth blooming somewhere behind your ribs that had nothing to do with the caffeine. He’s not performing humility, your brain noted.

“You seem pretty articulate for someone who allegedly only speaks hockey,” you teased lightly.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll run out of big words. I save my limited vocabulary for important stuff. Like convincing pretty linguistics majors not to cry over dead alternator belts.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. Abort. Do not catalog the way he said ‘pretty’. You were level-headed enough to know this was probably standard charming-athlete protocol, but your traitorous heart did not.

“Flattery won’t fix my car,” you said, aiming for dry.

“Wasn’t flattery,” he replied simply, shrugging one broad shoulder. “Just stating facts.”

Oh no. He’s lethal.

Before you could spiral further into semantic analysis of that particular sentence, the low rumble of a tow truck sounded from outside.

Logan glanced toward the window. “That’ll be my buddy. I’ll go talk to him real quick—make sure he doesn’t overcharge you or anything.”

You nodded, watching as he headed out. The second the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a long, shaky breath and pressed your forehead against the cool kitchen island.

Get it together. You are a grown woman with a working knowledge of twelve linguistic frameworks. You are not going to develop heart palpitations because a hockey player has kind eyes and competent forearms.

Logan returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“All set. He’ll tow it to his shop, replace the belt, and text you when it’s ready. Gave him my number as backup so you’re not stuck if anything goes sideways.”

You stared at him, gratitude and disbelief filling your chest. “Logan… seriously. Thank you so much."

Your phone buzzed on the counter, still low battery, but enough life left to show a text from your seminar group chat asking where you were.

Shit.

“I should get to campus,” you said reluctantly. “I’m already cutting it close.”

Logan straightened. “I can drive you. My truck’s out back. No big deal.”

You opened your mouth to protest—stranger danger, independence, etc.—but the offer felt so uncomplicated coming from him.

“If you’re sure,” you said carefully.

“Positive.”

The drive to campus was just as effortless as the conversation in his kitchen. Windows down, September air rushing through the cab, a quiet indie playlist humming low. You talked about everything and nothing—his upcoming hockey season, your hatred of semicolons in academic writing, the absurdity of off-campus parking.

By the time he pulled up near the humanities building, you felt giddy, a fizzy feeling you hadn’t experienced with a guy in years.

“Thanks again,” you said, unbuckling. “For everything. I owe you one. Seriously.”

Logan rested his wrist on the steering wheel, looking over at you with those warm brown eyes.

“You don’t owe me anything. But if you wanted to grab coffee sometime—when your car’s not actively trying to ruin your life—I wouldn’t say no.”

Your stomach did that stupid Brontë somersault again.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”